…you double your chances for getting burned and burned out.

Perhaps you’ve noticed. Perhaps the fact I haven’t been blogging as regularly as I have in the past may have been an indicator.

This has been a particularly hard year for me. And we’re not at the end of it.

I know that no artist has an easy go of it, even if you’re lucky enough to only concentrate on your writing. But like most artists out there I have a day job so that I can pay my rent, payback college loans, oh and you know I sorta like eating, so there’s that.

Having a 9 to 5 job means I have to use my evenings and weekends for playwriting, as well as do all the other stuff that people still do like laundry, housework, hanging out with friends, working out. Only it feels like I have two full time jobs (yes, playwriting is a full time job).

This year the 9 to 5 job has been upping the ante with stress. I can’t even begin to tell you how overwhelmed and slightly terrified I am at the work lately. But using the word “terrified” should be a big clue.

Then there’s the playwriting. This has been a good year (a reading in Chicago, an upcoming reading in NYC, finished a play, a play got recognized, expanded my network in meaningful ways), but I feel I could do more, need to do more, need to see more movement, momentum.

Add to all this the emotional tumult that death brings. Twice this year it’s crept in and pulled my feet out from under me.

I am so ready for this year to be over.

I think that if I can make it through this year, I can endure as a playwright. That is, I won’t give up what, at the moment, feels like a Sisyphean task. I love Greek tragedies, but Universe, can we keep them on the stage and out of my life?

My birthday is this weekend. I almost didn’t want to celebrate it and if you know me that’s completely out of character. But I will. Not this Saturday (since it’s also the default Halloween party night), but the following. And if I could have one birthday wish it would be to turn this corner.

-M

It’s been a little quiet here on the blogging front. Meaning, my blogging hasn’t been as regular as usual. Well, it’s been plenty stressful at the 9 to 5 job (and it’s not about to let up any time soon), on top of which I have lots of irons in the old theatre fire.

Needless to say I’m sure you’ve gleaned from recent posts a slightly overwhelmed feeling/theme running through them. In fact, about two weeks ago I fell completely off the face of the world and landed on my futon where I didn’t move for about three or so days. I needed that down time.

Okay, enough preface.

I’m back. And I’m trying to refocus my energies on a few things: 1) rewrites and writing (two very separate endeavors, but I’m putting them here together); and 2) getting The River Bride out there.

That’s right. The River Bride is ready to send out into the world. It’s my first play in a cycle of what I’m calling Grimm Latino Fairy Tales and per my dramaturg possibly her favorite play of all I’ve written.

What’s it about? Well, en lieu of a synopsis here’s a poem I wrote when the play was just an idea first taking root in my mind.

Where am I sending it? Well, I do have a few people/theatres in mind, but am always open to recommendations.

-M

Kennedy Center President to Latino Organization: ‘Go F*ck Yourself.’ That was the headline that burned up my Twitter feed Friday afternoon. 

Let that sink in.

I’m disappointed. Angry, yes that too. Believe me, that was the first emotion I had. But I lead with disappointed for a reason.

Why?

Because I expect more from my arts leaders. So should we all.

Now I don’t expect them to be perfect. People aren’t. But you know what I do expect? I expect those leaders to be willing to engage in dialogue. I expect them to be curious. To be open. To be willing to examine themselves and their institutions.

And “Go fuck yourself,” is a far cry from that.

So very far.

It’s dismissive. It’s rude. It’s unwilling to listen. It’s unwilling to consider alternate perspectives. It shuts down. It excludes. It fails.

Is this the caliber of leadership that a national arts organization should aspire to?

Yesterday I spent 4 wonderful hours in this amazing house in Bernal Heights filled with women theatre artists. It was fantastic! Why were we there? What were we doing?

Well, I’m going to write a 2amTheatre post answering both those questions, but I did want to just mention it here briefly on my own blog. A sort of teaser for the thought piece I’m working on for 2amTheatre.

We were there to discuss women in theatre. Discuss seasons that lack women playwrights. Discuss the need for more roles for women actors and more directing opportunities for women directors.

But we weren’t just there to discuss. We were there to start a course of action. Because no theatre in this day and age should think it’s acceptable that they just “couldn’t find any good plays by women” to produce in their season. If you ask me, if you can’t find them it’s not because they aren’t out there. It’s because you’re not really looking.

I understand. That’s some tough medicine to swallow. No one wants to look in the mirror and see that they’re falling short when it comes to equal representation. But isn’t that what theatre does? It holds up a mirror so we can examine ourselves–the good, the bad and the possible future?

I had one crazy dream last night.

I was in this enormous theatre. And when I say enormous, I mean large enough to house an ocean (or what was supposed to be an ocean) for its production. I wasn’t me at first. I was someone else, but still a playwright. The playwright, as in my play was about to be performed.

I tore some of the material from my dress and wrapped a stone, something that had engravings on it, in the fabric and threw it into the theatre’s ocean. And then I went to find my seat.

That’s when I was me. Looking for a seat. And I found one, but not after wending and winding through all sorts of passageways, hallways, down stairs, through crowds of people all looking to find their seat. But I had to go find the front entrance because that is where my best friend was.

After finding her I couldn’t remember where my seat was and I wanted to get back there. I had left someone there waiting for me.

So my best friend and I literally consulted a map and the theatre on paper was like several circles sorta like this, but the routes to and from the different seating section were a bit like a maze.

We were trying to find out seats because it was my play that was going to be performed, Heart Shaped Nebula.

We eventually found our seats and before I could dream up what the reviews were my imagination decided to take me somewhere kinda dark and I was back in my place trying to fend off those little furballs from Critters.

Not a fun way to end an interesting dream. At all.

-M

And as my morning mind often is a swirl of ideas during my commute, I suddenly recalled a movie from my childhood (and I had the pleasure of growing up during the 80s which is rife with amazing movies for kids that don’t pander or dumb down their stories). I thought of The Neverending Story. Of Atreyu and Artax in the Swamps of Sadness. How Artax gives up. How he gives in to his sadness and sinks down. And there’s nothing Atreyu can do to stop his dearest friend or save him.

This all sounds like a lot of cheese, I know. But I grew up in the 80s, so I have a special affinity for cheesy movies–especially ones with a lot of heart and lessons that can serve you well into your adult life.

So here’s the lesson, boys and girls.You can’t give up. You have to keep going. Or else you’ll sink. You’ll sink and disappear or sink and become completely jaded.

And perhaps you have to go into these swamps of sadness in order to come out the other end. Yes, you may lose something you love, but you’ll gain something as well. Sometimes we have to travel our particular journeys to learn something valuable, something about ourselves.

Now does this mean I’m able to suddenly make a 180 turn from yesterday (or rather all week)?

No.

But it puts it in perspective better. And it reminds me that I don’t want to lose my fairy-tale romance. And that like any relationship–it’s work.

So…time to get back to work.

And thank you, Nick. Thank you, Ted.

-M

I’m not immune to it. No artist is, I think. That uncertainty that creeps in and weighs you down, makes you question everything–your worth, your path, whether or not you’ll ever get where you’re trying to go.

And you find yourself trying to give yourself pep talks, remembering there is a constellation of supporters out there. And while that metaphor offers some comfort, you remember just like constellations the heavenly bodies that make them up are often so far away from one another.

And you just keep telling yourself to stay the course. To keep your faith in tact. Even when someone else tells you they’re so inspired by you, because hearing that makes you slightly uncomfortable as it all feels less glamorous than what’s scribbled on the postcard that you send back home.

Sleep on it. Take a deep breath. Remember that focusing on the writing always lifts your spirits. And listen to music, even if the emotions it evokes dance between melancholy and uplifting.